


The Spirits That Follow

by jaimeykay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimeykay/pseuds/jaimeykay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 7x10. Sam's tired of burying friends with no time to grieve for them. It's worse when Dean picks up an old habit with one goal in mind. (sequel to Through the Shadows)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spirits That Follow

The first night _after_ , Sam dreams. Fire. Shouldn't be a big deal; he's been dreaming of that for too long anyway, since he was a kid and witnessed his first salt and burn. It's certainly nothing new.

_'S nothing, dude. Stop being a baby._

Sam's hands are still shaky when he takes the unlit match in his hands, staring at it dumbly. Dad clicks his tongue but he gives Sam an encouraging smile, nodding to the bones below them. Dean's nudge to his shoulder is enough for Sam to take a breath and light the match. It falls out of his hand and into the grave, almost of its own volition, and it's easier to think that way. Easier to think that there's something more than him, something that takes decisions away from him and brings him along for the ride.

If only he knew just how right he was.

When he looks up at Dean and sees the fire reflecting in Dean's pupils, he shivers. Dean pats Sam's back but it's weak, almost reluctant. Sam notices too late that the smile doesn't reach Dean's eyes.

He realizes twenty years later that he's seen it all along but hasn't wanted to admit it.

:::

When Sam wakes up, still smelling smoke, the room is empty; he sits up quickly, expert eyes scanning his surroundings. He feels the sheets on Dean's bed; they're a little warm, so he hasn't been gone too long. Pulling out his phone, he sends a quick text to Dean and waits for a response. It doesn't take long.

_breakfast. chill, bitch._

Sam sighs and tosses his phone on the bedside table. It hurts how Dean's trying too hard. Their dynamic from years ago is gone, and it's never coming back. 

Sam's more than fine with that.

:::

When Dean gets back, Sam can smell coffee - which, yes please - along with...cologne? Dean doesn't wear cologne. _Go au-natural, get the full Dean experience_ \- which, gross - but it's one thing that's never changed, one little thing Sam can rely on in a world determined to throw them for constant loops.

There's something underlying underneath the cologne, which Sam suspects is its purpose - sickly sweet, but a scent that can never be masked, no matter how much Dean douses himself in cologne.

Smoke.

 _fire - fire reflection - dean's fake laugh, gimme the shovel, sammy, it's easy, see?_

"Got you an omelet," Dean says, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it on his bed. The smell becomes stronger, more poignant, and Sam swears Dean's face turns a bit red as he avoids Sam's glance.

Dean hasn't smoked in years, or maybe he did when he was with Lisa -

_God, what sam would love to ask about that year, what he would love to ask about all the years sam has missed._

Sam briefly picked up smoking in Dean's place ten days after Dean died. He hated it, hated the taste, hated that it was comforting, that the smell was familiar and something and _Dean_ , hated that he associated it with Dean at all. He smoked right down to the filter and lit up another without stopping, tapping the ashes out the window as he blew down another back road in another state, God knows where.

When Dean came back and saw the carton of Marlboros in the glove compartment he blanched and clamped his mouth shut, turning away. Sam threw them away at the next stop and never brought it up again, even though, like so many things about Dean's time in hell, he was so damn curious. A part of him is relieved, because he always hated Dean's smoking, especially with his weak lungs, but every time it was brought up Dean either bit his head off or doubled his smoking in retaliation.

Never seemed to understand that he was hurting himself most of all.

_don't breathe around me if you hate it so much, saint sam._

Above all things Sam hoped had disappeared after Castiel rebuilt his brother was the asthma. Unfortunately, that hope went out the window when Dean had an attack two weeks after he came back, ducking into the bathroom to wheeze and cough alone. Sam had sighed and slipped the inhaler through the door, which he kept in his duffel, even after all those months. Dean hadn't said a word; it had taken an extra few seconds for Dean to take it, confused eyes taking in the sight, as if he'd forgotten what it was used for. Sam had to guide it to his mouth before experience took over and Dean inhaled.

_the taste sucks. has it always sucked this much?_

_yeah, man. you bitch about it every time._

_oh. huh. okay. sorry, sam._

[ Don't. Don't apologize. ]

"Thanks," Sam says, taking the carton and popping it open. Veggie, looks like. "Where's yours?"

"Ate there," Dean shrugs, pulling out his laptop. 

Sam watches him for a moment, the container hot on his lap. "Why are you lying?"

"Not lying."

"You really don't think I can't tell when you're lying?"

The smile on Dean's face is haunting, and Sam swallows the rests of his protests and eats his breakfast.

:::

After that, Dean doesn't hide it, and the empty packs start to build up in the backseat. He tries to avoid smoking in the car, which bewilders Sam more than anything else. They end up stopping a lot more, sometimes even on the side of the road, and Dean walks down a ways, lighting up as he goes. 

"You can smoke in the car, you know," Sam finally tells him after they check-in for the night.

"It's cool," Dean says. "You don't like it." He _ruffles Sam's hair_ as he heads to the bathroom, and the shower comes to life. Sam stands dumbly, his bag still slung over his shoulder.

_you're such a fucking liar, man. so fake. you really think anyone believes you?_

_of course. who wouldn't trust this face?_

The number of people who don't is down to one, and the realization is enough to send Sam to his knees.

:::

The next night, Sam gets a call from Sheriff Mills. He's embarrassed to realize that he's forgotten all about her, forgotten that there was someone outside of Dean and himself that cared - that _cared._

Her voice is quiet, as if she speaks too loud, it'll make it true. "Sam?"

Sam intakes a breath. "Yeah. Yeah, he's - yeah."

She's quiet for so long that Sam wonders if she's hung up. "Are you coming back?"

Sam lets his eyes slide over to Dean, who's typing furiously on the computer like he has been for the past month, cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He coughs and it almost falls on the desk, but he manages to catch it, not even flinching as his hands touch the lit end. "I don't know."

"Okay," she says, voice unsteady. "Just - you should. Come back. If you can."

Sam can't answer, but he doesn't think she's expecting one.

:::

That night, Sam again dreams of fire. At first, there's nothing but black, nothing but silence screaming in his ears. He can't even hear Dean's breathing, the one thing he always takes care to notice, to keep track of the steadiness and consistency. Something has overtaken them and Sam's scared of what it is. He doesn't want to interrupt it, doesn't want to shatter it, but -

"Dean."

An intake a breath. It's comforting; Sam's not alone. Dean's okay.

 _lord, what fools these mortals be._

"We - we have to -"

"I know."

Sam waits. The darkness crowds him, squeezes him tight. The darkness remains, nothing but the sound of the scattering of leaves. " _Dean._ "

"We can -"

A swoop in Sam's stomach. "No. _No_ , Dean."

Dean steps away from him, his eyes wide. "That's not - you know I -"

"Dean," Sam says, grinding his teeth, his jaw aching. "Please. Please, do it."

_he can't, oh, he can't, what a coward, you do it, you -_

"A minute," Dean says, voice so low Sam can barely hear him. "Only a minute. Hold on a minute."

It's been - how many? how many years? five? six? - since they were in this very spot, since they watched Dad burn in front of them, and it's almost like nothing has changed.

After he gets in the car, Sam can still taste ash on his tongue. Dean hands over the keys and slumps in the passenger seat, his pack of cigarettes on his lap. He smokes each and every one of them until they find a motel for the night.

His wheezing follows Sam into sleep.

:::

Sometimes, Sam wakes up in the middle of the night and sees a bit of light coming from the bathroom. Inside, Dean mutters under his breath, smoke slipping through the cracks of the barely opened door.

_what is he doing in there? what's he doing, hmm? not even a question, is it? he's so damn predictable._

One night he builds up enough courage to join him, sitting on the floor, computer on his lap.

"We're going to find him, you know."

Dean looks up, five o'clock shadow, dark circles under his eyes. "Yeah," he says dully. "I know. And I'll fucking roast his ass." He rolls his neck and winces: then smiles. A look that Sam has grown to loathe more than anything. "I'm out of cigarettes."

"You can wait until morning."

Dean's smile lingers. "I'll be back in a minute. You should go to bed; you look like shit." He pats Sam vaguely on the shoulder, stumbling to his feet. His breath rattles in his chest.

Sam doesn't sleep.

:::

In Idaho, Dean wakes up with a fever that flushes his cheeks and makes his eyes glittery. He coughs as he reaches for his morning cigarette but chokes it down anyway, either out of habit or necessity, Sam has no idea. Sam is almost grateful, because maybe this will force Dean to slow down.

He should have known.

Dean chugs down some cough medicine straight from the bottle (which is a warning sign as it is, because Dean never admits to being sick, no sir) and keeps going. He even takes the Gatorade that Sam hands him, but ignores the toast Sam leaves on the table.

"You need to eat."

Dean smiles. "I'm good. Seriously" except it sounds more like "I'b goob. S'rsly." His nose is bright red; it's almost cute. 

Then he coughs into his elbow and wipes his nose on his sleeve. Lights up another cigarette and almost swallows it whole.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?" Sam asks. "Jesus."

Dean tucks his jacket closer around him, his shoulders hunching. He doesn't answer.

:::

Sam's not supposed to be looking for a routine hunt 

_the numbers, sam. the numbers._

but he can't help when one stares him in the face.

"Should be easy," he tells Dean over his turkey wrap. Dean's burger sits half-eaten on the plate, his plate of fries almost completely full. "Just a poltergeist, man. Then we can keep going."

Dean chews on his straw and smiles around it. "There's always going to be poltergeists, Sam. And wendigos. Spirits. We can't stop for one because we'll have to stop for all of them."

"It's right here," Sam protests. "We could be finished by tomorrow night. You're really okay with leaving, knowing that someone may die in a few hours?"

It's a low blow, one that's always guaranteed to hit hard, and this time is no exception: Dean stares back at him with wide eyes, breath coming shorter.

Too short.

"Hey. It's fine, man. Take it slow."

_match his breathing with yours. you're going to have to know how to do this, sam._

Careful not to draw attention to themselves ( _watch your back. always. keep quiet. any attention is bad attention_ ) Sam slides into Dean's side of the booth and places Dean's hand on his own chest. "Feel?"

Dean lets his hand rest for only moments before he pulls away, pushing himself against the wall. "I'm fine," he says, a hint of a wheeze to his voice. His eyes are narrow. "Sit on your own fucking side."

This is almost reassuring, the reemergence of the old Dean and not this fake Dean that Sam has been living with for the past few weeks. Sam obeys and takes his own seat again, picking up his wrap. Dean fumbles with his jacket pocket, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it up with one fluid motion.

"I don't think you can smoke in here."

Dean looks up and curses. "Fuck. Okay. Look, I'm gonna head back. Meet you there."

"Want me to get your food boxed?"

Dean casts his eyes at his burger with a frown, as if he had forgotten it was there. "Uh. Sure, I guess."

Sam nods. "We don't - we don't have to talk about the poltergeist right now. We can figure things out in the morning?"

Dean's own nod is jerky, and his chest hitches, mouth tightens. He looks like he wants to say something but doesn't have enough breath. 

Sam watches as Dean heads out the door and sticks the cigarette back in his mouth, smoke spilling out of his lips. He inhales but coughs, pressing a hand against his chest to steady himself. Sam bites his lip and politely requests for the check. 

:::

That night, Sam sees the pyre again. It's not Dad this time, or even Bobby, and now Sam is hot, so hot, his bones screaming heat, flesh bubbling.

_gotta burn him, sam._

_no. he's gonna need it._

_i don't know what you're planning, but you winchesters have to stop this. stop now. it's not what dean would want -_

_dean's not here to say what he wants. i'm speaking for him. get out of my way, or i'll make you move._

Except this time, Sam's alone, the lighter heavy in his hands.

"Light 'em up, Sammy."

Sam starts and takes a step backward.

"You have to let me go."

"No," Sam says before he can stop himself, his eyes fixed on the body in front of him. Dean's skin is clean now, Sam having diligently scrubbed the blood away ( _it's not dean, it's not, this is someone else_ ), but his flesh is still torn to shreds; that can't be removed by soap and water. "I'm going to fix this. I can fix this."

Dean's eyes open, red with popped blood vessels. "It's okay. You'll be fine. You've always been fine on your own."

"Stop," Sam says through clenched teeth. "Don't _you_ tell me that. You have no right saying that. I'm not burning you, so shut up."

"It's not me you're burning. Just the shell. You've gotta. Let me go.

 _I need to go._ "

Sam wakes up to the moldy ceiling: it looks like it's only moments away from leaking. Dean's bed is empty, the familiar light spilling from the bathroom, but this time there's a sick feeling in Sam's stomach. He props the door open and peers inside.

Dean sits on the floor, leaning against the tub, legs flat out in front of him. Numerous cigarette butts lay beside him. His face is desperately pale, his lips blue, chest heaving. He's not getting any air.

Sam has seen several asthma attacks, but Dad's always been prepared with backup inhalers, backups of backups, and he's only had to watch while Dad or Dean himself took care of it, the loud wheezing slowly tampering down until Dean was breathing normally.

There isn't even a wheeze now. 

_just - just pop it in, see the canister? Press it to release the meds, okay? Make sure he inhales it all. If it looks like he's still struggling, do it again. And again. Understand?_

Sam's never had to do it himself, and although he knows the technicalities, he's terrified.

"Hey. Where's your inhaler?"

Dean looks up at him, and there's no panic. Only resignation. Suddenly, Sam sees red.

_kinda like suicide by cop, isn't it?_

Sam tears out of the room and feels the pockets of Dean's jacket; he pulls out the inhaler, but there's no canister. _Shit._

_whoopsie daisy._

There's always a spare in the glove compartment, they've made sure of that, but for a moment, Sam can't remember if they'd transferred it from the Impala to the new box of death they're driving now.

Maybe it was purely by habit, but they've brought it, and Sam thanks whoever the fuck is out there before he sprints back to the bathroom and kneels by Dean's side.

"Open your mouth."

Dean closes his eyes before reopening them slowly. His mouth doesn't move.

_"Open. Your. Mouth."_

When Dean still doesn't move, Sam grabs his jaw and pries it open, Dean's hands fluttering weakly against Sam's wrist. Sam shoves the inhaler in Dean's mouth and keeps it closed around the mouthpiece. Dean can only watch now, his eyes following Sam's movements sluggishly.

"Inhale on three," Sam spits, letting anger take over. It's so easy, scarily easy, like slipping back into an old pair of shoes. "Understand?"

Dean's gaze drifts up to Sam's face, a dull, familiar comprehension in his eyes. He tilts his head back and breathes in when Sam tells him to. 

"Again."

Dean complies, and there's a hint of a wheeze there, relief filling Sam so suddenly he almost vomits.

"Okay. Good. Again." Sam places his hand on Dean's chest and feels the rise and fall of breath. _Jesus._

The inhaler falls to the ground as Sam turns Dean around, folding his arms on the rim of the tub. He rests his hand on Dean's neck and sighs, rubbing his face with the other.

When Sam's satisfied with Dean's breathing, Sam hefts him up and sits him on his bed. The words sit in his mouth, ugly to the taste, but he can't help letting them slip out.

" _This_ is why you picked up smoking again? You - " Suddenly Sam has no breath either, and he slumps on the bed, Dean falling against him. Sam feels all of six years old again. "You'd - you'd fucking leave? You'd _choose_ to leave?"

_me?_

"Sam," Dean rasps, but Sam doesn't want to hear it.

There are no words for this.

:::

The next morning, Sam throws out almost every reminder: the empty packs, the cigarette butts. He clears out the ash trays in the car and sprays it down. He knows that Dean still has a half-full pack in his pocket, but it's too intrusive to throw it out, no matter how much he wants to.

When Dean sees the clean car, he doesn't say a word; his hand goes to his pocket and his posture relaxes. 

"I won't," he says. "Sam."

"You can't," Sam manages. "If you do - if you do?"

Dean swallows and nods. He takes a moment before he hands the spare inhaler over to Sam. Sam swallows and clutches it tight, his chest warm. Dean toys with the pack in his pocket while he throws Sam the keys to the car. 

Sam hesitates, then presses on. "You never told me why you stopped. Smoking, I mean."

"I know," Dean says. He rolls down the window and tosses out the pack. "I know."


End file.
